Old Times
by Perfect Solution
Summary: Harry takes a look back to the past, and what happened that got him where he was today... Bad Summary, I know. R&R! One shot


**A/N: **This is the first fic I write. _Please_ review me, and tell me where I could have done better. Flame me if you want! Tell me why though... And you don't need to be gentle. Tell it like it is. >. 

**Disclaimer: **I ((sadly)) don't own any characters or items mentioned in this story.

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The sun streamed in through the window. In the room, there lay two dressers, a big mirror, and a large bed in the middle, against the wall. The cream coloured walls made the room seem comfortable, and warm. The bed was nicely made, with fluffy pillows and blankets that seemed inviting. At the foot of the bed, pushed against it, was a large trunk. Not too intricately designed, it was sealed with many visible, and some unseen, locks. The tall figure walked towards it, his green eyes on the familiar trunk. He knelt before the trunk, running a hand through his black, somewhat scruffy hair. His hand lightly brushed his scar. He almost chuckled at the feel of the lightning bolt on his forehead. No one recognized him for that anymore…

Harry slowly opened the trunk, knowing how and where to put the right pressure to get it open. How long had it been? Too long, he knew. It was rare he reminisced about his past. But he felt compelled to do so today.

On his knees, his muggle jeans and muggle shirt seemed plain compared to what he pulled out. A long, silky robe, with a crest of a lion was now draped over his hands and he scanned it with his eyes. So delicate, yet he was proud to have it. How long ago had it been since he had last worn it? Years… Everyone, just by seeing these robes, would know where he belonged. Gryffindor, house of the brave. A small, sad smile remained perched on his lips, and he placed his Gryffindor robe beside him, on the floor.

His fingers began tracing around the edges of vials, sparkling liquids setting within them. Harry couldn't even remember what each of them was for, but it didn't really matter much anymore.

Slowly and carefully, he pulled out a photograph. He slouched down a bit, as he watched them, his attention now on the moving pictures instead of the trunk. It was him, a younger him, smiling and waving from the picture. Two other figures were with him. Ron, taller than the rest in the picture, had tousled red hair and freckles, which stood out with the green and blue background of the Hogwart's grounds and Lake. Hermione was in the picture as well. She had a playfully irritating look on her face as Ron held her book out of reach. He could recall the day clearly. They wanted Hermione to swim with them, but she chastised them about not studying. Neville had taken the picture, and Harry had later asked for it. Remembering, Harry smiled down at himself and his two best friends. Each of them were smiling and waving playfully. Innocently. Harry shut his eyes sadly, feeling the urge to cry, but refusing to. He placed the picture gently on the robe beside him.

He held the trunk, itself containing memories of hastily packing his belongings and going from place to place. To and from Hogwarts, from the Dursley's to the Burrow; basically it had gone everywhere he had gone.

His hands continued delicately searching the trunk of all it contained. Finally, his hand came across a long stick. He pulled it out and examined it closely, his smile less sad. After twirling it in his fingers, he flicked it, and his smile broadening slightly. He stared at it, thinking of how well he used to use it. All the things he could do with it… Everything he had used it for…

A lump developed in Harry's throat, as he thought of the last time he used it. To kill Voldemort. He-who-must-not-be-named was now nameable, since Harry had defeated him. He wished the memory leave his mind, but it was always there, haunting him whenever it came up. It had been a bloody battle… he had watched so many people die and suffer, from both sides. Aurors against Deatheaters, civilian against civilian. Harry hadn't thought it possible to defeat Voldemort, after seeing all the people sprawled lifelessly on the floor. But he saw a face he recognised. Then another. And another. His friends, schoolmates, Professors, loved ones… Their faces and bodies were matted with blood, and their bodies strewn across the battlefield. That was when Harry made sure they hadn't died for just anything. It was for a cause. A great cause, to give future, oncoming people the right to live. Sacrifice one life, for millions of others… These thoughts made Harry destroy the last of Voldemort's soul.

"Daddy, are you ok?" A young girl's voice brought Harry back to the present. She had brown, fuzzy hair, and green eyes that matched his own. Harry wiped away the tears that had fallen for his lost friends and smiled warmly at her, hugging her tightly.

"Daddy's fine…" He assured her. She squeezed him tightly, hugging back. He stood up and squeezed harder, swaying her in his arms.

"Dad…can't… breathe…" The little girl giggled. He set her down gently and looked at her with a broad and gentle smile.

"Mum says it's time to eat." The little girl was still smiling. "I made the salad!" She commented proudly, holding her chin up high. "_And_ I set the table. All by my self." Harry chuckled lightly and knelt down to hug her again.

"Wow… All by yourself? Bet it's a delicious salad…" She nodded boastfully. "Well, I'll be down in a minute. Go wash your hands, 'kay Sweetie?"

She nodded again, still beaming and ran out of the room. Harry gently placed everything back in the trunk and locked it carefully. Giving up magic had been his decision right after the war. He wouldn't use his wand again, after all the harm it had caused the ones he loved. The thought of his children using the weapon that was most powerful, well, he couldn't bear the thought of it. Harry would never forget those he lost in the war, but now that it was over, he found himself able to start over, without completely restarting.

He stood up once more, and headed out of his bedroom door. Maybe one day, he'd be able to tell his children of the Wizarding world, where magic was real, and 'fairy tales' were just 'tales' to them. But for now, he'd just tell them stories that began with 'Once upon a time' and was filled with their imagination, then ended happily with 'The end'. If only they knew how real their imagination was…


End file.
